All That Is Not Mine
by the.eye.does.not.SEE
Summary: [Preseries] Oscar and pre-Jane say goodbye.


**Title** : _All That is Not Mine_ [1/1]  
 **Universe** : Pre- _Blindspot_  
 **Rating** : PG  
 **Pairing** : Oscar/pre-Jane  
 **Summary** : _Join or Die._ That had always been the case with her.

* * *

Her back stiffened, and her hands clenched into fists, when the door to decommissioned exam room opened and he stepped inside. He could tell by the pinch of her lips that she was clenching her jaw. Hard.

"You're not supposed to be here," were her first words. She didn't even meet his eye.

"Oh, that's a nice way to say goodbye," he quipped, shutting the door behind him.

She ignored his attempt at levity. "We already said goodbye," she replied, keeping her gaze locked on the tattoo mock-ups, spread out on the table before her in a huge cluster.

"That was six days ago," he reminded her quietly, coming to stand on the opposite side of the table. He didn't want to get too close right now—for both their sakes'. They'd exploded at each other enough times in the past to know just how close this moment was to becoming volatile. He didn't want either of them to remember the other like that—not even for a moment.

She didn't say anything to his reminder; instead, she just kept tracing the designs with her eyes. Her gaze was currently preoccupied—or attempting to become preoccupied—with the ring of colonies that would soon be permanently inked onto her left hip.

 _Join or Die._

The words weren't written there, on the tattoo, but they were implied. Aptly, he thought. _Join or Die._ That had always been the case with her. He remembered when he used to love that. Used to love the us-against-the-world feeling. The crusade. The good fight.

"Nervous?" he asked, trying for another tact as he, too, turned his attention to the spreads on the table. He picked up one of the photographs close to his side of the table. It was a crooked hand, pinky bent askew. It would go on her left side, just above her tenth and ninth ribs. It would lead her and Weller's team to a human trafficking operation based out of the New York Harbor. It, like all the other tattoos surrounding it, will do a world of good if deciphered properly.

"Not nervous, no," she answered, and he was relieved to hear her voice come out sounding calm.

"What are you focusing so hard on then?" he asked gently.

"Nothing, Oscar," she bit out, cold again. And then a moment later, in a whisper, "You'll think it's stupid."

He smiled a little at her admission. It wasn't often she bared herself to anyone's judgment, let alone his. "Will I?" he asked, watching her eyes flicker up to his. Her mouth twitched a bit—her precursor to a smile, a laugh. God, how he longed to hear her laugh, just one last time. "What's so stupid about it, then? Tell me."

"It's... not even a concern," she excused, pushing off from the table. He watched her from the other side of the table as she paced, back and forth in the narrow, dingy space, her arms crossed tight over her chest. "I don't know why, I just keep fixating on the stupidest details. Like, what if Weller's sick next month, when they drop me off in Times Square? Or what if whoever finds me doesn't follow the instructions, and takes me away somewhere besides the New York Bureau offices? Or what if—" She choked out a hysterical laugh, throwing her arms up in desperation. "What if I can't get out of the fucking bag? What am I supposed to do then? They could shoot me, while I'm still fumbling around inside trying to get at the zipper!"

"All right, all right..." Oscar held up a hand, calming her momentary hysterics, even if he couldn't calm her pacing. "First of all, don't waste a second worrying about Weller. He'll be in place no matter what. Even if he's sick, he'll be there. And if they take you to another office, it doesn't matter. His name will still be there on your back; they'll have to call him. You'll be too important, too high-profile, for them to call in any other agent—"

"What if he's dead by the time I show up?" she pressed, refusing to be placated so quickly. "Between now and then—that's a month, O! He could go down in the field in that time, at _any_ time, easy!"

"We've got eyes on him, bodies on him," Oscar assured her. "He isn't going to die between now and the end of September." He smiled briefly. "C'mon, cut the guy some slack, he can do his job."

"Okay, fine." She pushed past one problem and onto the next, efficient as ever. "What if he quits?"

Oscar couldn't help but snort at that. " _Please_. You've been keeping tabs on him as often as I have. All he's got is his work. He's not going to leave."

"What if he has an epiphany? You know, there's more to life than work, that sort of thing?"

"Doesn't seem the type."

She stopped a moment. "No," she agreed. "He doesn't."

"As for the zipper you were so worried about..." Oscar couldn't help but laugh, and she shot him a dirty look. "Look, if it's really bothering you, we can install some kind of line inside the bag. I'll tie a cord from the zipper to your hand, so you'll have it with you when you wake up. It'll pull the bag open even if you don't know what to do."

She lifted her hand to her face, chewing absentmindedly on a nail. "That might be a good idea," she said finally, catching his eye.

"I'm full of good ideas."

"You are."

Her voice was quiet, gentle, and as she looked over at him, he waited her to say the words. _I don't want to go_. He waited and hoped and wished—

But of course she never said them. He doubted she even thought them. Once she committed herself to a mission, she was gone. It had always been that way; he'd always known that... Why expect any different from this one? She'd been gone from him for days now, weeks, months... Years, if he was being truly, horribly honest with himself. She hadn't been a part of him, of them, since this all started.

He had spent a long time refuting that truth. He had spent an even longer time, after he'd accepted it, railing against it. That's when they'd fought the most, the angriest, and been the cruelest to one another.

But mission time had come, like it always did, and all the fights and the bitter words and the hopes for the future had fallen away. All they had was the coming present, the mission, and they had poured too much of their lives, too much of their hearts, into it to let it fall apart because of things so petty and changeable as mere emotions.

He knew it was all for the greater good. He knew the spiel. She'd said it enough times that the words were basically a part of his natural vocabulary. He could train a legion of fighters to follow after her, using the words she'd once used on him:

 _Think of the lives we will save. Can you imagine the change this will bring about? Not just in the army, not just in the Marines, but in the Bureau, in the CIA, in the federal government... The_ world _... Can you imagine it: being able to actually change the world?_

She'd always spoken of the mission, and its goals, which such awe. Like she couldn't wait to reach them, almost couldn't believe they were real. And she'd translated that to him. That's how they'd worked together so long, through the setbacks and the sleepless weeks and the fights and the dead-ends. She'd infused him with hope for something better, and he had not felt such a thing in a very, very long time.

And now she was leaving.

He knew he shouldn't—couldn't—blame her. They'd both known this day was coming from the start. They'd both known that they each had their separate part to play. They had their sacrifices: her giving up her past, and him giving up his future. No matter how things played out, they would both be on the losing side. But they had spent so long telling themselves it would be worth it, that whatever hurt they felt now would be nothing in comparison to the freedom and security the world would feel once they had succeeded.

That's what they told themselves. But it wasn't so easy to believe anymore, not when she was about to leave him for good.

On a chance, he crossed the room and reached out to take her hand. He waited, tense, for her to throw him off, but she didn't, and he slowly relaxed. He let his grip loosen, let their hands morph together and interlace, turning them, momentarily, into one being joined. For a while, he watched her as she stared down at their hands, silent.

"You promise you'll look after me once I'm gone, O?"

Her voice was shaky, nowhere near it's usual steady, determined pitch, and just the sound of it made him want to cry. Instead, he squeezed her hand and forced a smile.

"Hey. Of course. I've got your back. Always, I've got your back. You know that."

She smiled a little, remembering their old joke, as she turned to catch his eye. "Semper fidelis?" she asked.

His creed, turned into theirs.

He smiled briefly at the words, despite himself, despite what was happening, and stepped closer so he could lean down, and press his forehead to hers. "Semper fidelis," he agreed softly, never taking his eyes off of hers. "I'll be with you. Wherever this takes you, whatever happens, I'll always be with you."

She nodded, and reached her free hand out to touch his cheek gently. "I'm sorry that I won't be... won't be me," she whispered. "If I could... If I could stay myself and still do this, you know I—"

"I know," he interrupted, wanting to spare her the explanation, spare her the sorrow it would bring. They'd talked about this too many times before to have to hash it out again, right now, right at the end. He hooked a hand around the back of her neck, and held her tight. "I know you'd do what you could, if it were possible. But we both know it has to be like this, for safety's sake."

She nodded silently at that, and then bent to the side to press her face against the junction of his neck and shoulder. He could feel her tears, cold and wet against him when they fell, but he didn't say anything to them. He knew she was hiding for a reason, and the last thing he wanted to do was make this last moment together any worse than it already was.

It was quiet for a while between them as he held her and she allowed herself to be held by him. With the exception of that "goodbye" she'd mentioned earlier—which had really just been a horribly long sleepless night, punctuated by failed attempts by the two of them at making love for what they knew would be the last time—they hadn't touched each other in nearly a week. They'd hardly even seen each other. He knew she had planned it like this to make it easier on both of them, but it had just ended up making things all the more painful. He would've preferred to be able to hold her like this, every day and week and month and second until she had to go under. But he wasn't the one running the show, or making the sacrifices—at least not the big one—and so his preferences were secondary.

Most of the time he didn't mind that. And right now, he found, he didn't mind either. Not so long as she was still here with him. Just this one last time. He wrapped an arm around her back and hugged her to him tightly, silently grateful when he felt her hands grip his back, so hard and forceful it was like she wanted to tear him apart. He swallowed the words he wanted to say, tucked his chin down on top of her head and closed his eyes, and counted to three...

But he still wanted to say it.

Their erstwhile agreements be damned, he _had_ to say it.

"I love you."

The words were raw coming out, broken hitting the air, but he didn't care. At least they'd been said. He waited, in the silence that followed, for her reprimand. He knew he wasn't supposed to say things like that; neither of them were. It only made things harder. But she said nothing. She just held him closer and pushed her nose against his neck and cried silently.

He didn't say anything else. He didn't ask her to remember him, or keep him in her heart, or save herself for him, or do anything else silly and sentimental that would mean nothing come this time tomorrow. He knew there was nothing she could promise him right now that she could be sure to deliver upon once the procedure was finished.

But being her, she tried anyway. She tried really hard, and he listened, and despite the fighting and arguments and the isolation of these past few weeks, he remembered why he loved her. Why he probably always would.

"You know I'll come back," she whispered, pulling away finally, and clutching his face tight between her hands, so tight he could feel the short points of her nails digging into his cheekbones. "I'll come back to you, O, I swear; you'll see me again—"

"I know," he whispered, even though, really, he didn't. They might not know much about what would come after the memory wipe, but they both knew this: there was no way she would ever truly come back to him. He would see her, sure, but she wouldn't be the same _her._

He had accepted this a while ago.

Or at least, he had told himself and he had told her that he had.

"You should probably go," she whispered finally, reading his mind. "They'll be here soon, to start the procedure. You know you can't be here once it gets underway."

"I know," he whispered back. But he didn't let her go. And she didn't push him away. Instead, she softened her grip on his face so that she was no longer clutching his cheeks but cradling them. She watched him for a minute, and he watched her. And then she leaned up onto her toes, and he closed his eyes, and they had their last kiss.

He tried to focus on it, tried to commit every second, every movement, to memory, but at the end, all he could really remember was the warmth of her against him, the softness in the way she touched him, and the cold of her tears, mixing with his.

Eventually, it had to stop; he took her hands in his and squeezed them tightly, and then leaned back, just enough so their mouths would break, so there would be some space between them. She held his fingers hard, silently asking them both for more.

He put up a smile, trying his hardest to make it genuine. "Good luck out there," he wished her, not daring to speak at a regular volume lest his voice break. "Make a good impression on the feds for all of us back home, huh? We'll be rooting for you every step of the way."

She tried to smile too, but it didn't end up holding. Instead it crumpled, and she did too, and then she was in his arms again, her face buried against his chest, and he closed his eyes, hating and loving her all at once for this: for giving him this one last moment, and for taking it away.

"I'm going to miss you," she whispered, pressing her forehead hard into his sternum.

He shook his head against her, his chin brushing against her dark hair. "No," he disagreed quietly. He gently took ahold of her shoulders, and pulled her away from him so they could look one another in the eye. "That's one thing I can promise you: you won't ever have to miss me."

He could see her face break open then, could see the tears threatening again, and he let her go before they could do this all over again. He couldn't take another goodbye. "Love you," he whispered, pressing a quick kiss to her forehead before stepping away. "Knock 'em dead out there."

He walked to the door then, hating to leave her standing there crying but knowing it was the only way to end this once and for all. He'd just reached for the handle when he heard it.

"I love you too," she called out, breaking her own rule, disobeying her own order.

He closed his eyes at her confession, his fingertips barely touching the metal of the knob. He gave himself a moment, two, to let it sink in. To let it be real. And then he wrenched the door open and stepped outside, not once looking back. All he allowed himself to think as he left was that he could not have asked, prayed, or begged her for better last words. If he thought of anything else, he'd fall apart just like she had. And he wouldn't have the luxury of forgetting about it afterwards.

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 **A/N** : Thanks for reading! Leave me your thoughts!


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